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A review by buddhafish
Postmodernism by Christopher Butler
3.0
140th book of 2020.
Ah, postmodernism. Before I discuss this book, I want to comment on a TV show I saw a while ago (perhaps on the BBC, but I can’t remember): at one point a number of artists were asked to define postmodernism. The results were humorous, but not helpful; most said things like “it has been explained to me a hundred times and I still don’t understand it” or, more simply, “I don’t know.” One, who had been described as a postmodernist themselves, had no clue either. I’ve spent the last few weeks reading about postmodernism and it does seem to be this elusive, often mischievous, force of nature, sometimes eluding the very people who create it—is postmodernism Frankenstein’s Monster?
Butler is not a postmodernist. His stance is critical in all sense of the word—he attacks postmodernism throughout the book and even partly mocks it. He starts a little lenient perhaps, but by the end, his stance is very much clear. I am by no means a “supporter” of postmodernism, but I have a great deal of interest within it. After many weeks of reading around the subject, this book didn’t reveal a great deal of new information, but there were some “known” things outlined nicely. Butler’s tone did irk me by the end: critical, slightly arrogant and aloof. It did make me wonder why he wanted to write the book, or why anyone wanted him to write the book, considering his scathing views of the movement. Interestingly, he finalised his thoughts by saying I believe that the period of its greatest influence is now over; this is no new claim either. Of course, now, we could be in post-post-modernism, or else post-post-post-modernism and so on… We are forever beyond modernism.
As an introduction it was acceptable, but mostly too much of an attack for an “introduction”—one wanting an entrance into a movement should not be led through lenses of disapproval and derision. All the names one expects to read were there: Derrida, Pynchon, Jencks, Grass, Nabokov, Eco, Rushdie, Rauschenberg.
Overall an interesting read but some articles I have read were more enlightening and less critical. A dissection can be deep, but not wounding—Butler’s incisions were heavy-handed and drew a lot of watery blood without much substance.
Ah, postmodernism. Before I discuss this book, I want to comment on a TV show I saw a while ago (perhaps on the BBC, but I can’t remember): at one point a number of artists were asked to define postmodernism. The results were humorous, but not helpful; most said things like “it has been explained to me a hundred times and I still don’t understand it” or, more simply, “I don’t know.” One, who had been described as a postmodernist themselves, had no clue either. I’ve spent the last few weeks reading about postmodernism and it does seem to be this elusive, often mischievous, force of nature, sometimes eluding the very people who create it—is postmodernism Frankenstein’s Monster?
Butler is not a postmodernist. His stance is critical in all sense of the word—he attacks postmodernism throughout the book and even partly mocks it. He starts a little lenient perhaps, but by the end, his stance is very much clear. I am by no means a “supporter” of postmodernism, but I have a great deal of interest within it. After many weeks of reading around the subject, this book didn’t reveal a great deal of new information, but there were some “known” things outlined nicely. Butler’s tone did irk me by the end: critical, slightly arrogant and aloof. It did make me wonder why he wanted to write the book, or why anyone wanted him to write the book, considering his scathing views of the movement. Interestingly, he finalised his thoughts by saying I believe that the period of its greatest influence is now over; this is no new claim either. Of course, now, we could be in post-post-modernism, or else post-post-post-modernism and so on… We are forever beyond modernism.
As an introduction it was acceptable, but mostly too much of an attack for an “introduction”—one wanting an entrance into a movement should not be led through lenses of disapproval and derision. All the names one expects to read were there: Derrida, Pynchon, Jencks, Grass, Nabokov, Eco, Rushdie, Rauschenberg.
Overall an interesting read but some articles I have read were more enlightening and less critical. A dissection can be deep, but not wounding—Butler’s incisions were heavy-handed and drew a lot of watery blood without much substance.